Dear Diary
by seastar97
Summary: Years before she is married to Henry, before Jem and Will, Charlotte Fairchild's life is being thrown out before her. The story of how what is came to be.


**Edit: A/N: Hi. Well, originally, I was so excited to publish this, that I forgot to put an author's note with it. So, here it is now! I really, really, really love the Infernal Devices, so for me, of course, the most logical thing to do is to write a fanfiction for it. After reading Clockwork Prince, Charlotte and Henry's characters really grabbed me. They're just too cute for words. Charlotte, to me, seems like one of the most vesatile character in the series, because her past is an enitre untold story. It also entwines Jessamine and Henry's stories, and Jem's and Will's a little bit, too. And it just seemed amazingly simple to write a diary for her. **

**Anyway, I just want to encourage you to review, it really motivates me to keep on writing. I willl continue this, no matter the lack of reviews, because I just think it's awesome to write, but it'd be nice to know that someone is interested. I know the Infernal Devices isn't that popular (yet), so that makes this story kind of unique. If you want something a little bit more popular, I also write for Percy Jackson, the Hunger Games, and Inheritance Cycle. Check those stories out, too if you're interested. (Please :D).  
>I also edited a little bit, becuase I got some names mixed up. The next chapter in well in the making, so the wait shouldn't be too long!<strong>

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><p><strong>Property of: Charlotte Fairchild<strong>  
><strong>Care of: Granville and Miranda Fairchild - The London Institute<strong>

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><p><strong>September the 18th, 1869<strong>

_Dear diary,  
><em>  
>Mother and Father have locked me in my room again. I don't know how much more of this torture chamber a thirteen-year-old girl can take. It's bloody boring in here. I hate it when they have to take care of Accord matters during the day. They may as well allow my presence - the sooner I learn to deal with things like this, the sooner I'll be able to run the Institute.<p>

The Lightwoods are here again. I hear the children, Gideon and Gabriel, sobbing. As they couldn't have silent tears. I'm sure their father just wishes them to display their grief in the stead of his. The youngest, Tatiana, is begging for a drink of water, which my mother obliges to. Mr. Lightwood seems particularly vicious today, for whatever reason. Perhaps he's just realized that he's lost the love of his life forever, and he will have to fill the position of both mother and father to his three children. I believe I could be a better mother than him any day.

When I asked father last night why Benedict continues to visit - he's been here at least six time since the funeral - he refused to say anything more than "He blames the forthcomings on out family, Lottie," which is more than I was actually expecting, but it still makes me wonder what the Fairchilds have done.

It's difficult to imagine what it must be like for the Lightwood family right now; they've lost two family members within two months, and not even to battle. First Mrs. Delia Lightwood's twin brother Silas, and now Mrs. Lightwood herself, presumably to grief, for whom, aside from Benedict, would not be shocked that such a good and merry man would have strung himself up? My father seemed saddened by the news, but not exactly surprised. He had a knowing look in his eye.

This passage has only managed to somewhat ease my boredom. The Lightwoods seem to be leaving, so I'll close. I don't know why I've waited so long to start a diary. Mother tells me that I am a brilliant writer for my age. Here's hoping that she never reads this.

-Charlotte Mary Fairchild

**September the 21st, 1869**

_Dear diary,  
><em>  
>News, finally, of the little girl who's come to stay with us here in the Institute, but first, the rest of that night four days ago.<br>I wandered out if my room toward the main doors and foyer where my parents always entertain the Lightwoods. They were, indeed, leaving. Benedict had Tatiana's hand, her big green eyes sparkling with tears, eight-year-old, bless his soul, Gabriel was clinging to his scowling father's leg, wailing for mama, and Gideon stood by the door, stony-face as a boy of ten could be, with tears leaking out of his eyes.  
>Benedict gave me a venomous - as if <em>I<em> were responsible for the death of his wife - look before scooping his daughter up and striding out the door, calling, "Come, boys!"

Gabriel skittered out after his father, while Gideon, unfailingly polite, held the door for his brother, tipped his hat, and bade my family good night in a shaky voice.

My father turned to glare at me. "Lottie! You were supposed to be in your room!" I looked down at my feet."

My mother was more kind. "How much of that did your hear, darling?" she asked.

"I only just came out of my room," I said.

"Good," my father growled, and took off toward the kitchen, which makes me even more curious as to what transpired between him, my mother, and Benedict Lightwood. I wish I'd listened, for it seems likely that I'll ever learn anything more - Benedict hasn't been over once since that day.  
>Back to the present. The night after Benedict stormed out of the Institute, who should come banging at our door? The Consul, Wayland, as my parents call him. He has with him a little girl, bless her soul, only about Gabriel's age and knee high. He pushes her inside, saying "She's a Shadowhunter", and nothing further. Then the doors clang shut.<p>

The little darling stands straight, her chin set. There is soot on her fine-looking dress, and a smell of smoke hangs about her. Her blonde hair is limp and laden with debris of some sort.

"Are you Shadowhunters?" she demands in a sharp voice, surprising both myself, and mother and father, who stand a few feet away.  
>My father nods. "Yes," he says, narrowing his eyes.<p>

Mother jumps in before father can say anything stupid. "What is your name, sweetheart?"

"If you're Shadowhunters, I'm not allowed to talk to you." The girl turns her back and stomps her foot. The strap of her shoe snaps.  
>My mother puts a hand on her shoulder. "If you don't talk to us, then we shan't be able to help you. What is your name?"<p>

"I don't have one."

"No wonder the Clave dropped her with us," my father remarks bitterly.

"Granville," my mother scolds. "If you weren't prepared to deal with stubborn little girl, then you wouldn't have become caretaker of the Institute. Besides, she's not much different than Charlotte was."

"I would have preferred a son."

"Granville!" My mother is stern now. "He doesn't mean anything, Lottie."

I nod. My father's said things like this before. I still think he'd love me better if I were a boy.

"We're not Shadowhunters." My father tries the lying approach, his voice sickly sweet.

"I see those, those _things_ on her arms." She points to the runes on my mother's arm, which still rests upon her shoulder.

I step forward. "Will you speak to me?" I am baffled as to why this girl refuses to converse with her own kind. "I bear no marks." I show her my arms. It is true, I have no marks - the few iratzes I've tried on myself have faded almost completely.

The child turns her brown eyes on me. "Jessie," she snaps, then corrects herself and says more politely, "Jessamine Edaline Lovelace. Who are you?"

"Charlotte Lucinda Fairchild." She stares at me, and I level my gaze. "Would you like to tell us what happened?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says shortly. And she'll tell us nothing. We do feed her, bathe her and dress her in some of my old hand-me-downs, which she wrinkles her nose at.

That's how Jessamine got here, in my room. She's staring at me right now. She's just asked when dinner is to be served. I tell her that Marge and Freddy, out servants whose real names are Marjory and Fredric, will call us when it is through being cooked. Now she asks how I write. I tell her that I just do it. I do wish that mother and father wouldn't make me share my room with her, but she still won't say a word to either of them – Marge and Freddy are fine, since they really aren't Shadowhunters – and my room is on the ground floor. I am going to ask to be relocated when Jessamine leaves.

As for the news about her family and origins, mother and father say that they will tell me over dinner. There's Marge calling now.

– Charlotte Mary Fairchild

**September the 22nd, 1869**

_Dear diary,_

I could scream. Last night at supper, mother and father informed Jessamine, who now sits crying in my lap, and I of the reason Jessamine is to stay here – _forever_, it looks like.

It was awful to hear. Father said that there was a fire, a blazing inferno that consumed the Lovelace's house. It was rather large, not in comparison to the Institute, which could easily house three-hundred Shadowhunters if need be, but larger than per usual. The size of the house proved deadly. The fire started in the scullery, which would be where the crypts of the Institute are located. The flames ate their way up the sides of the house, killing all but one of the servants first, and working skyward toward the upper floors where the Lovelaces slept. It was too late when the Clave arrived to save them, but Jessamine happened to be in out on one of balconies when the fire started. She'd had no idea what happened to her parents. It was a wonder that the house didn't collapse onto itself until after the Clave had taken Jessamine away.

After some further investigation, it turned up that the Lovelace family had been Shadowhunters who had left the Clave years ago, renouncing every part of the Nephilim culture. Because of this, Jessamine has no family willing to take her. Her parents, rich as they were, had left her a real fortune, which she will be able to freely access at the age of seventeen. The only thing that had been salvaged from the blaze was a scale dollhouse replica of the house, which sat in an unopened parcel on the drive. It really looked magnificent on the dining room table, but I couldn't bear to look at it. Far too many people had lost their lives in that house. Poor, poor Jessie.

Mother says it is time to resume tutoring, and I mustn't keep Mr. Branwell waiting. He is awful, though, and I wish that I still could be instructed by Silas Lightwood and his _parabatai, _Carmine. They had no sons to compare myself to. Mr. Branwell says that is son Henry is simply rocketing forward in his training. I'll close now.

– Charlotte Mary Fairchild


End file.
